


Lace

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cute, Fluff, It's a really cute end i promise, Lace, Lots of tongue, M/M, Oral Sex, Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Sort of Dom John, Stockings, kinks everywhere, submissive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes exploring in Sherlock's room without his permission, finds something he shouldn't, and sex happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lace

**Author's Note:**

> I am so ashamed. I can't apologise enough. This is awful. I just couldn't help myself. Be gentle.

_Lace is a tentative fabric. The softness intrudes desire. Its incandescent colours - from a crimson dusting of a flowery pink, to a dripping ivory, seeping into the skin of its wearer - impose the sinlessness gratification. Imposing filthy want upon the lace, however, well, that’s the finest part of it all._

Sherlock detested John’s persistence to scrub, swab, and sponge every square inch of 221B Baker Street, despite his constant drawls in protest, whilst the blond dusted about the flat. Only, Sherlock refused - with a salient, hazardous glint in his eyes, compelling John into submission - to allow John to ever, _ever_ enter his bedroom, without proper permission and supervision.

But, John’s a major cock, and decided to do so anyway.

Sherlock had bustled off, tumbling out of the flat, to the call of a quadrupole murder, with the lover of the suspected killer now attempting to kill herself. Oh, it was Christmas for the idiotically genius detective. Therefore, with the flat empty and to John’s command, he settled on snooping, like the total arse he is.

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom creaked ajar, and John swallowed dryly. Sherlock was a secretive man. Yes, John knew of his childhood - Mycroft happens to also major in arsery -, his likes and dislikes, how he likes his tea, his darkest times, his best times, informative little pieces that every best friend and flatmate should be aware of. John wasn’t expectant of dismembered victims, nor shattered teacups. No, he was expectant of something dangerous. Something he would never, for all that is good, ever consider Sherlock hiding under lock and key.

He pawed underneath the mattress, nothing.

He tore through the closet, nothing. He arranged it all back into place, though. Still nothing.

He dipped through each drawer, finding pants and button-downs, his gun, a stray nicotine patch—wait. His gun? Sherlock wasn’t allowed to have guns alone. John pinched the bridge of his nose, evidently and thoroughly displeased. He dug a little deeper, his fingertips fluttering over a fabric, one he _almost_ disregarded, if not for the familiarity. He cautiously pushed the other clothing items to the edges of the drawer, and fishing out the hidden pieces.

Sherlock owns fucking lace. And it’s _worn_.

John’s cock is hard. He hadn’t even had the time to imagine Sherlock _in_ the pants, and he was already hard. He was very, very hard. That is certainly a bit not good.

Fuck, he had a kink. A kink for a man. A kink for his damn flatmate. His insufferable, maddeningly gorgeous flatmate, who just happened to strap up in lace. Fucking hell.

“John?”

Ah, that makes things _so_ much better. Good job, John. Got yourself caught. Wonderful. With a tent in your trousers and Sherlock’s lacy panties in your hands, at that. You deserve an award: World’s Most Moronic, Suicidal Flatmate. Oh, this most certainly meant death. Sherlock would never allow John to consciously know of this. Fuck, he was so screwed, and not in the way he wanted to be. Not with Sherlock riding him in those sweet panties, till John can’t even remember his own name. John, no, _focus_.

“John, what are you doing?” Dwelling deeper inside the insistence in his rich, decadent baritone, there was a shy break, a crack. Fuck, he was nervous. Oh, the poor darling. Thought John was disgusted, more likely than not. Made John’s heart tremble.

“How long have you had these?”

“I hardly think tha—”

“Answer the question, Sherlock.”

Three gulps for air, and a flush high on his defined cheekbones. He’s aroused. He’s submissive and aroused and John’s ordering him, holding his very core of his dirty fantasies. That was _so fucking hot_.

“Three months.”

“And do you wear them every day?”

“Every night, yes.”

“And what do you do with them?”

“John, I don’t be—”

“Sherlock, when an order is given, you obey said command, without hesitation. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, John.”

John quirked an eyebrow, and Sherlock understood. This was a game. A power play. Who could last longer. And, by God, he was so ready to begin.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Now, what do you do with these at night?”

“I... I pleasure myself, sir.”

“Where?”

“I fuck my fingers, sir.”

“Do you touch your cock?”

“No. It’s against the rules, sir.”

“Rules?”

“Yes, sir. It was your order, sir.”

“My order? What was my order?”

“You were masturbating in your bedroom, two days prior to my purchase of those panties, and I heard you. You said ‘God, Sherlock, let me fuck you!’ So, I’ve spent my nights in preparation for you.”

Christ, the imitation of his cries were too delicious.

“Are you ready for me now, Sherlock?”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“I am not correctly dressed.”

“Why don’t you go dress yourself, then?”

Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly discomfited.

“M-May you leave for a few moments, sir? I want it to be a surprise.”

John nodded in approval, and ambled towards the door, presenting the panties to Sherlock, and allowing him to eagerly take them, excitement lighting his eyes.

“Five minutes, darling.”

“Yes, sir.”

And the door was shut. John wasn’t going to be some desperate dickwad, and press himself against the door, attempting to get a lick of sound from the other side. No, he’d wait in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop, a filled, chilling bottle of whiskey in hand. He’d need it. The buzz would assist his efforts, more than any mental preparation. He tugged off his jumper and undershirt, just for the hell of it.

“Sir!” the call sounded, three minutes and thirty-nine seconds into his five-minute waiting period. John had already downed the bottle.

John returned to the bedroom, smiling to Sherlock’s delightful appearance. So, it wasn’t simply panties he owned. Interesting.

Sherlock was wearing the lace panties, obviously, the creamy-colored fabric cradling his bollocks, yet his hard, pretty prick stuck out, the crown peeking out the top of the little piece, droplets of pre-come dribbling over it already.

His legs were clothed, up only to his knees. The stockings were a matching color to the panties, a gentle ivory colour, pulled taut over Sherlock’s skin. On each, opposite, side, were little, baby pink bows, dotted with little red hearts.

His chest was bare, as were his arms. Though, wrapped gorgeously around his lean throat, was a bright white ribbon, tied up in a bow also. It was tight enough to deem a choker, if John wished, but loose enough to allow John to kiss and suck marks beneath and around it.

Sherlock had combed through his hair whilst dressing up for John. It was tamed, different from before, and John found one more bow beneath the mass of inky curls. It was a wee barrette, tucking a few of Sherlock’s lovely curls up cutely.

Cute felt odd, given the current situation, and Sherlock’s current position - on his knees, thighs spread, and hands clasped behind his back, on the bed, awaiting instructions -, but sod it. Sherlock was cute, and John refused to think any different.

“Sir?”

John shook himself out his hazy day-dreaming, concentrating on a big-eyed Sherlock, rather than his mind’s image. As he sat himself down beside Sherlock, and the mattress dipped, Sherlock stumbled to untangle his words, messily stuck in his throat.

“What do you want to do to me, Sherlock?”

“S-Suck you, and ride y-you, sir.”

John shivered anticipatorily.

“Get to it, then, sweetheart.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock scrambled to comfortably situate John on his back, before slithering downwards, practiced fingers expert as they undid John’s zip, tugging his trousers and pants away, until John could kick them off and away. Sherlock peeked a glimpse at John’s cock, and groaned quietly, hurrying to align the long, thick girth to his lips. One of John’s hands nestled itself in Sherlock’s curls, steadying them both.

Sherlock took the first indulge of the evening, a dart of pink tongue collecting a dollop of pre-come at the tip of John’s cock, before he mouthed at the head, laving his tongue in long strides over the foreskin, and rubbing the muscle against the wet glans. Only after his taste buds began to tingle, John’s taste overwhelming his senses, did he take the head properly between his lips, and sucked, his tongue swirling dutifully, coaxing a filthy whine from the blond underneath him. He licked greedily at the fluttering vein on the underside of the heavy shaft, as his head bobbed, bringing in more of John’s cock, inch by glorious fucking inch.

“Sh-Sherlock, fuck!” cried John, once he felt a nose nuzzling in the flurry of blonde hairs, at the base of his cock, the feeling of the back of Sherlock’s throat, and of the man swallowing around him, it felt like punch in the gut. God, he hadn’t thought Sherlock to take the _entire thing_.

Sherlock hummed around John’s prick, which twitched excitedly, and a loud groan spilled past John’s lips, incoherent praise mumbled soon after. That familiar, hot and airy feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach, and he struggled to push Sherlock off him, who whimpered at the loss of his treat.

“S-Sir?”

“Need you. Need you right now. Come here.”

Sherlock’s entire escence was just _bright_. Excited from his smile, nervous from his trembling hands, relieved from his slumped shoulders, it made John’s heart melt into a sweet puddle of absolute love.

Sherlock crawled happily onto his lap, his cock steadily dripping pre-come now. He settled down on John’s thighs, grinding against him, as he directed John’s hand towards his arse. The blond’s eyes briefly widened to the obscene wetness he discovered there, but soon grinned, working Sherlock’s pretty panties down this thighs. The brunet sighed to the easing of pressure to his pelvis. His tongue stuck out between his lips, concentration clear, as he positioned himself above John’s cock, wishing to sheathe in one swift motion.

So he did.

He impaled himself, and felt like his entire being was being split in half, the hardness seeping into him, molding them together, obscuring where one body ended and the other began. He whimpered, squirming on John’s lap, needing him to _move_.

“Oh God, Sherlock, you’re so soft and warm, oh, you’re perfect,” John breathed, his thrusts gaining depth, rather than speed. Angling, rather than erratic movement. Sherlock’s insides clutched and gripped at John’s cock, wanting it to stay buried deep, reluctant to ever let it go. He searched out Sherlock’s prostate, huffing a laugh as the man above him damn near screamed, shivering as he held his cries.

“Mm, let me hear you, love, please,” John persisted, hands wandering up to blindly grope at Sherlock’s shoulders, tugging him down, and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the man’s unmarked throat, just above the ribbon, at Sherlock’s thudding pulse point, the rapid palpitations feeling so good underneath John’s lips.

“L-Let me come, sir, please, oh, please, let me come,”

John thought wrapping his fingers tight around Sherlock’s cock, and _squeezing_ , would be better than a mouthful of words as a reply.

Sherlock unraveled entirely. He was slack-jawed, with his head tossed back, everything washed out in white. The hot liquid spurted across John’s abdomen, and some kind of orgasm sensor was hit, for he bottomed out, and came until he was seeing stars over stars, and then possibly a few more.

“Christ almighty...” John sighed weakly, his voice roughened and raw, as Sherlock pulled himself off his softening cock, collapsing down on him helplessly. Their chests met, each and every time, as they gasped for breath.

“Y-You...are fantastic...” Sherlock muttered, once the spots in his vision cleared up, and he could breath, instead of pant.

“Y-You too, God...”

Something felt off. John cracked his eyes open, and stared down at Sherlock, who was gazing up at him, with an unsure expression.

“What is it?”

“Is this a bad time to say I love you?”

“Only if it’s not a bad time to say I love you right back.”

“Good. Just making sure.”

“Ah, that’s adorable.”

“I’m not adorable.”

“Yes, you kind of are.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose, and pouted childishly.

“Am not.”

“Oh, we are not starting this. I’m way too tired.”

Sherlock’s simper, haughty and pompous, made John’s heart swell, despite losing their little banter.

“Come here. I’m tired, really.”

Sherlock snuggled up into John’s open, welcoming arms, falling to rest against his side, one leg draped over John’s. The blond tugged the comforter over their sweat-slicked bodies, and buried his nose into Sherlock’s curls, dipping in and out of consciousness.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“You’ll be here in the morning, right?”

“I’ll be here every morning, idiot.”

“Good.”

Yeah, very good. Perfect, really. Definitely perfect.


End file.
